The Actual Police
by arysa13
Summary: Clarke's neighbour won't stop playing Every Breath You Take on repeat and it's driving her insane.


It's not funny anymore. At this point it's just ridiculous. And infuriating. It's 1am on a Wednesday morning for crying out loud, some people have to work in the morning. And yet, Clarke's neighbour, is playing Every Breath You Take by The Police on what sounds like full volume.

She can't really hear the lyrics, but she's become all too familiar with its thudding bass line and repetitive guitar. She can tell which part it's up to without even trying. " _Oh can't you see_ ," she sings along groggily. " _You belong to me_." She groans as she shoves her face into her pillow, trying to drown out the music.

It wouldn't be so bad if this was the first time it had happened. But no, apparently this guy is a particular fan of The Police, and this song in particular. She had thought it was funny on New Years Day when he played the song over and over for seven hours straight (well, she had been a little concerned that he was dead or a stalker) (she does know what the song is about). It had quickly become apparent that he was alive however, as sometimes the next song would start to play, and before it could play more than a few bars, her neighbour would change it back to Every Breath You Take.

He's played it every few days since then, always on repeat, and now apparently he's decided he'll infuriate his neighbours further by playing it in the middle of the night.

She leaves it for about an hour, thinking surely he'll stop (isn't he sick of this song yet?) but by 2am he's still at it and Clarke knows she has to take matters into her own hands.

She doesn't bother getting dressed, just shoves her slippers onto her feet and trudges next door in her pyjamas. She knows she probably looks a sight, but maybe it will serve to terrify the guy into ceasing playing this song for the rest of eternity.

She bangs on his door aggressively until he opens it and she freezes with her fist in midair.

"Can I help you?" he asks. It takes Clarke a second to remember why she's there, because she's distracted by this shirtless young guy, who is totally ripped, staring at her in confusion (as if it isn't obvious why your neighbour would be knocking on your door at 2am when you have your music on full blast).

"No offence, but I'd really like to get some sleep, and your stalker music isn't helping," she snaps, once she collects herself. She wasn't expecting him to be young. Or hot. She'd been expecting some fat, balding middle aged man who's stuck in the past so he's using The Police to relive his glory days. Now she's a little self conscious at how she looks and she smooths her hair surreptitiously before scolding herself for being so vain. Besides, this guy is clearly a weirdo stalker who is too obsessed with The Police, she shouldn't care what he thinks.

"You don't like The Police?" the guy practically accuses her. She scowls. _She's_ the one who's supposed to be doing the accusing.

"They're fine at a _normal_ time of day and a _normal_ amount of times in a row," she retorts. "With the amount of times you've listened to this song over the last month I think I have reason to call the _actual_ police."

"I don't listen to it that much," the guy says defensively. Clarke gives him her best "are you serious" look.

"You listened to it for seven hours straight on New Years Day," she reminds him.

"It's a good song," he shrugs. Clarke rolls her eyes.

"Listen…" she pauses and waits for a name.

"Bellamy," he supplies.

"Listen, Bellamy," she goes on. "Play whatever damn song you want, but do it quietly or else everyone in the near vicinity is going to think you're a stalker."

"I'm not a stalker, I promise," he says seriously.

"That's exactly what a stalker would say," Clarke smiles wryly and Bellamy chuckles.

"Sorry, I'll turn it down," he says. Clarke nods and goes to leave. "Hey," he calls after her and she turns back to him. "I didn't catch your name."

"Clarke," she tells him and her nods thoughtfully. "It really is kind of stalkery, isn't it?"

"Um, yeah," Clarke agrees with a short laugh. "Did you not realise that?" Bellamy shakes his head.

"My girlfriend, Gina, broke up with me on New Years Eve. It was our song," he says sheepishly. "Should have known it was a doomed relationship with a song like this."

"Yeah," Clarke laughs a little sadly. "You should probably stop torturing yourself and find a new song. Roxanne is a pretty good song."

"You think I should stop listening to a song about stalking… and start listening to a song about a prostitute?" Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

"It's definitely a step up," Clarke grins and Bellamy ducks his head as he laughs.

"Do you… do you want to come in for a drink?" he asks her. Clarke hesitates. "Yeah, okay, that was a dumb suggestion, sorry. I guess I'll see you around." He goes to walk back inside.

"Wait!" Clarke calls him back. "I would, but I have to work early in the morning. I'm a doctor. Raincheck?"

"Yeah, raincheck," Bellamy agrees, brightening. Clarke nods and they both turn and head back into their respective apartments. She can still hear Every Breath You Take playing, but as she gets into bed she hears the song change.

 _Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light._ Clarke smiles in spite of herself.

* * *

It's a few years later when the MC at their wedding calls them up for their first dance as a married couple, and no one quite understands why they've decided they want to dance to a song about a prostitute, but Clarke thinks it's perfect.


End file.
